


BlackBird Singing in the Dead of Night

by AceQueenKing



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Minor Character Death, Minor Character Death - Original Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: She wasn't surprised to see the Crow perched upon her window.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selkit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/gifts).



She wasn't surprised to see the Crow perched upon her window.

She'd noticed that the guard was unusually scant, this night; a sickness, her lady in waiting had said. At least three of her bodyguards had been consumed with the illness, a verifiable pox. Even her beloved Ser Cauthrien had begged illness. She had found the illness odd, but had not doubted the genuineness of it; diseases swept through Denerim frequently enough, particularly during the rainy season.

But now she knew it was not a natural illness. Now she knew the source.

She had heard of the Antivian's generous use of poisons. She had not expected to see them used upon her house.

“Queen Anora, I presume?” The crow said; his large, skull-like mask swiveled toward her. He gave her an odd little bow, his blond hair spilling across his shoulders. “I must say the rumors do you no justice. You are _truly_ a most beautiful rose.”

“Have you come to kill me, Crow?” she said, standing straight and tall. She was regal, unyielding in her posture with not a hint of surprise in her face; she had been trained for this, born for it, like Cailan. Cailan had always been more weak in that regard. His emotions had been always visible on his face: he had been lousy in cards, and lousier still in bed.

The Crow seemed much like him – the long blond strings of hair swaying in the breeze, the florid poetry. For a moment, she wondered if she were being haunted by her father's ghosts, but then the Crow laughed, his hands sliding to the mask and tugging it off.

“Nothing so crude, my lady,” he smiled. She glanced at his face – a handsome man, with high cheekbones and beautiful brown eyes. He had one tattoo carved into his golden skin – a dalish _vallaslin_ ? A gang tattoo? Either way, it spoke poorly of his intentions.. His ears – elven, sharp – twitched in amusement as he took a step forward.

She did not retreat; her only movement was a tug of her sleeve, pulling the knife she had always carried from its hiding place, strapped to her sleeve, but she did not move to attack – not yet.

“I've come to trade, my lady.” To her surprise, the Crow bent down on one knee, his hand placed upon his chest in tribute.

“An odd motivation, for a crow,” She hummed. “What is it you have come to trade?”  
  
“Information, your majesty.” His mouth drew into a wide smirk, the sort of a cat that had found the crème and knew damn well that the cooks would give it some. There was something of the cat in this elf – the way he moved, careful and precise, with eyes that missed nothing.

“And why should I listen to the word of a crow?” She asked. She palmed the knife, but she was resolved not to use it unless there was no alternative. She had been trained in combat by her father, but it had been many years since she had had time for lessons – and Crows did not lack for practice.

“Because you have need my information,” the Crow said, placing his mask upon the table. “But first, my Queen, why not a game of cards?”  
  
She bit her cheek to keep from letting her confusion show at the abrupt change of topic. “You appear in my window, in the middle of the night, wishing to play a peasant's game?”  
  
“I find information is best exchanged in...enjoyable diversions, my Queen.” The elf batted his sizable lashes at her, and she had the distinct thought that he was courting her.

The scandalous wink he followed it up with left her little doubt. The crow sauntered over to her dressing table – and she was fairly certain that he swung his hips more just to give her a better view. He was lithe, thin but well-muscled. He flopped onto her dressing table chair with little fanfare, his legs leaning on her table.

“Come come,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small deck of cards. Blue backed with gold trim, red bunting slashed across the back in a diagonal pattern. An Orlesian deck, she was quite certain. Her back tightened as she took a step forward – Was the crow disguise a diversion? Perhaps he had been sent from Orlais. She raised a hand to ring a bell at the door to call for what remained of her men at arms.

“I would not do that, Queen Anora,” the crow said softly, folding a deck of cards. “I am not a violent man, and I would prefer to leave your guards alive – but I will defend myself, if necessary.”

She stared at him a moment, unsure of what to do. Anora had long ago learned that most surprises were bad ones, and she had not counted on the odd crow being so observant. She bristled, but lowered her arm. She did not drop the knife. She could not take the potential assassin on in a direct attack, but she could, should she need to, launch a surprise attack – and a knife need only break through the skin to kill.

And Anora kept her knives very sharp.

“A wise decision,” the Crow said, shuffling the cards and looking up at him. “Now, let us play, my queen.”  
  
“But you haven taken the only seat. Am I to sit on your lap, Crow?”  
  
He laughed, a long and full-bodied laugh that reminded her of Maric. “As much as I would quite like that, my Queen, you can stay on the bed. For now.”  
  
She took a seat on the bed, crossing her legs, evaluating the elven intruder. He hummed as he started to deal a deck of cards between them.

“Wicked Grace?” She asked as she picked up her first card – the knight of roses. How apt.

“Is there any other game?”

“Typically this is used to win small-clothes off of chambermaids,” she noted, picking up another card – a knight of thorns. She began to wonder whether or not the elf had rigged the deck. She had not noticed it, but she had never been fond of games of chance.

The elf laughed hardily, nearly falling off of her chair. “Oh, that is a fun game, my lady, to be certain, but...I thought we might play for truths.”  
  
“Truths?” She scoffed. The elf had mentioned wishing to trade information, but there were things she could not give. Better to test him now and find out what he wanted early, rather than make a promise she could not keep and be forced into giving information she could not allow herself to disclose. “You cannot expect that I will tell you state secrets.”  
  
“Nothing of the sort, my lady.” He said as he quickly dealt the last three cards. “I was thinking more along the line of something far more personal.”  
  
“Why are you here, elf?” She said as she adjusted her cards – not a bad hand, from what she understood. Two knights, two serpents – a good hand, as far as she could tell.

“Ah ah, my queen.” The elf waved a finger. “You know better than to ask a question without winning a hand.”  
  
“So you say.” Anora carefully placed one of her two pairs on the table, holding another in hand, and watched as the Crow's eyes watched her fingers play her cards. “But this is a game of falsehoods.”  
  
“In all falsehoods there are truth, my lady.” The elf said, then played his hand. Three pairs. She swallowed. She caught him smirking as he drew his next card.

On her turn, she pulled the next card, only to find the Angel of Death staring here in the face.

“Ah, what a shame,” the man sighed. “I do so hate premature ejaculations.”

“I suppose I owe you a question, then, elf.”

“Yes. And, please, call me Zevran.” He tilted his head toward her, a wide smirk on his face. “Have you ever been in love, my queen?”  
  
“I cannot see why you would want to know that.” She said, frowning. She thought of Cailan for a moment, a handsome smile but vapid face. That, she knew, was not love, but duty. She thought of her father, his search for Maric draining the royal accounts. She thought of Ferelden, it's lands turning to their queen, marshaling their forces during times of struggle in order to help end the blight.  
  
“Yes.” She smiled. “I have known love.”  
  
“Ah.” The elf's eyes sparkled. “But romantic love?”  
  
“You did not ask me to clarify.”

“So diplomatic.” He shuffled the desk. “Another hand?”  
  
“You are the one holding me hostage,” she said, the knife reassuringly cold against her skin. “You tell me.”  
  
“Another hand it is.”

The hand progressed quickly enough, and poorly; she drew three hands without matching, and Zevran drew two matches out of three. She was not surprised, this time, to see the Angel of Death come quickly, and wondered again if he was perhaps rigging the deck.

“A second truth, then.” She said, folding her cards onto the table. “I suppose this time you will ask if I have known romantic love?”  
  
“Oh no no.” He smirked. “You took so long on the last question that I think the answer is quite clear, my lady. And sad.”  
  
She bristled, but he seemed not to notice her discomfort. Instead, he folded his hands into a steeple-shape, his brows knit in concentration.  
  
“If you could have one thing you cannot, what would it be?”  
  
“My freedom,” she said. It was an intimidate confession, but he had asked, and anyway, it was the truth. She had been all but decided to be queen before she was knee-high to her father. She had never known a life outside of the crown, barely remembered Gwaren. She would never be out of the public eye, even if she should abdicate.

She expected him to laugh, to ask _who is free if not a queen_. But instead, he smiled, and played the next hand.

It went well for her. They played six sets before the angel of death appeared in the deck, and she had four pairs to his three. She smirked as she splayed down her last pair when the Angel showed.

Zevran gagged in jest, falling downwards onto the floor. “Ah, my lady! I am slain...metaphorically.”  
  
“I believe I have won a question from you, ser.” She said, her hand flipping through the cards.

“Ah, be gentle,” he said, winking at her. She felt a flush of heat radiate through her body, but ignored it in favor of matters of national security. She debated many questions – who sent him, what he had done to her guards – but settled on the most prominent answers.

“Why are you here?” She said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, mercy, but you are direct, my queen.” He laughed, and from the way his eyes moved, she was fairly certain he wasn't looking entirely at her face. “I like that in a woman.”

“I am here because I was sent here,” he said, almost purring. He sounded like a cat that had gotten the cream – a rather fitting analogy, she thought.

“By who?”

“Ah, my lady.” He smirked, then pointed toward the deck. “If you wish to know that, you must win another hand...if you dare. Or perhaps...” He looked askance, then turned back to her. “Oh no no, I could not ask for that.”  
  
“For what?”

“Oh, there are jewels that could persuade me.” He said, looking down at his nails. “Perhaps a glass of water? I have ridden a _long_ way and I am very parched.”  
  
She raised an eyebrow before leaning over to the edge of the bed, holding her water decanter and cup. Fortunately, she had not drank any yet.

“Here,” she said. “Now – specifics.”

The elf took a long time drinking, making a great show of pouring, then winking as he brought his lips to the glass.

“Ah, royal water,” he mumbled softly. “Truly, the finest. Oh, I am being _so_ spoiled.”  
  
_“Information._ ”

“Ah, so impatient.” Zevran chuckled. “Very well. I am here because I was hired to be here, for a specific task. As to what that task was – perhaps you should look in your closet.”

“Something tells me you are no tailor.” She said. She was wary to turn her back on him, and felt his eyes on her as she stood. She listened, keenly, for the sound of footsteps, but there were none. After a few steps she chanced a look back and saw Zevran. He raised his glass to her in a perhaps-mocking salute. She pressed her lips together; his reaction was...curious.

“Do stand back when you open it,” he said once she was within a couple feet. She frowned; was it a trick to try to distract her? Perhaps he had a crossbow on delay, and should she step in the right place –

She moved two steps to the right and back. Just in case.

“Careful opening it,” He called out to her. She glanced back for a moment before turning the knob.

She bit back a shriek as a body flopped out of the closet, landing on the floor with a cataclysmic thud. Had the hour not been so late, she had little doubt that her handmaidens would come pouring into her room, swords drawn.

“ _That_ ,” he said, gesturing toward the body, “is why I'm here.”

She glared at it for a moment; it was a man, young. She recognized the tattoo around the eye – similar to the one her new Crow friend wore, but she was sure this was an elven mark. Elven, too, were the young man's ears, wide and pointy, visible even under a head of wirey hair. Light eyes stared up at her emptily, but light inside them had long long since extinguished by the long, wide scar that was on his neck.

“He didn't suffer,” she said softly.

“No.” He shuffled the cards; when she made no move to join him, he stood up, walking towards her. “Another hand, my lady?”  
  
She whirled toward him, the knife sliding into her hands. She gripped it tight as she turned toward him, a smile on her face.

“Zevran,” she said.

“Yes, my lady?” He purred. “I do so enjoy you saying my name – “  
  
She pressed her chance, her hand forcing him back toward her heavy, wooden wall. He landed with a satisfying thump, and then her knife was at his throat.

“Why is there a dead man in my closet, pray tell?” She whispered, her words as steel-edged as her knife. “Make the explanation good, Zevran.”  
  
“My-My queen,” he laughed; a nervous sort of giggle and she was pleased to get him off of his guard, but it lasted only a moment, as he turned soulful eyes toward her. “You play rough. I like that in a woman, too.”

“Who sent you. _Why.”_

“I – the great – “Zevran coughed. “It is hard to speak with a knife to my throat, madam.”  
  
“ _You should speak and get it over with then._ ” She hissed.

He drew up to his true height, his eyes boring into hers. “I was sent her by Duke Gaspard. _He_ was sent here by the Empress Celene.” Zevan's mouth twisted into a wry smile. _“He_ was sent here to kill you in hopes of stopping you from marrying Gaspard, as rumors in Orlais suggest.”

She held back her disgust at that. She had, of course, heard the rumors through her spies, and had dismissed them as nothing more than fever dreams of Gaspard. For Celene to act so fast – and, indeed, so foolishly; that was the far more interesting action of the two.

Her neighbor now saw her as an expendable threat. She took note of them before pressing the blade once more into Zevran's neck.

“Why did you take this assignment?”  
  
“One, I do not wish to see the death of a beautiful woman. And two, I will never turn down an opportunity to kill a crow.”  
  
“I...See.” She leaned further into him, and felt the blade sting his skin, a pinprick of blood welling onto her blade. “How do I know you won't kill me, then go back to the Crows? It is clear you were once one of them, judging by your mask.”  
  
“The crows and I have bad relationship, my lady.” Zevran's lip twitched. “Besides, as I said, I am not one to murder you, my lady. If fact, if you wish me to return the favor to Celene...” Zevran said, his eyes darting salaciously. “Well, I could be persuaded, but not without a substantially... _rarer_ prize.”  
  
The tug of his hand on her silk skirt made her freeze. It brought back old memories, long buried; her father pushing her toward a man she did not want, little more than a boy. Maric glaring at her approvingly, for the first time looking at her less as a daughter than as a birthing ground, a cementing on his legacy. Of her husband, who had seemed far more interested in her chambermaids than her opinions, whose death she had barely mourned but haunted her still.

“No,” she said softly, pressing his hand away. “I have given my body away for Ferelden once. No more.”  
  
Zevran gave her a sad smile as he withdrew his hand. “I am sorry, my queen.” He bowed softly, before turning toward the window. “Forgive the intrusion. Well...this one, at least. I doubt you fond my earlier help unwelcome. Our information is concluded then. I shall take my leave of you.”  
  
“Zevran...” She reached out an arm, grabbing him before he could start a run toward the window. “I am not saying such a...favor is outside the realm of possibility. Merely… That it is not something I could give in payment.”  
  
“Ah,” he said, laughing. “Well, fortunately my lady...” He turned his face back toward her lightly, his mouth showing just the softest hint of a smile. “I can be a patient man.”

“Thank you,” she said, and he turned around. “For your help today.”

She leaned closer, turning her head downward as Zevran tilted his upwards. _B_ _y Andraste,_ she thought _, he is going to kiss me._ And he did. She was long out of practice, but he did not seem to mind.

“Forgive the liberty, my queen.”

With that, he started running toward her window; within seconds, he was gone.

She attended to business immediately after, of course; she called her guards, and the still-pale Ser Cauthlien helped her drag the body of Celene's assassin out of her room. Then she sent a careful message about the attempt to their diplomat in Orlais, discretely warning her in code to try to find information confirming Zevran's account. She also sent a brief message to Gaspard – a small thank you for her...interesting surprise. With Celene making far more open attempts on her, it would come in hand to have friends in high places, even if she did not wish to marry the Orlesian.

And then, at long last, she slid back into bed. It was morning now, the sunlight peaking through the windows, but she had time for at least a small nap before it would be time to reappear in front of the court.

If she was the rose amongst the brambles, then she would not be seen as anything less than a thorn in Celene's side.

\- - -

It was a few weeks later when she began to receive...gifts…of a kind that could only come from the crow.

On the eighth feast day of the Empress Jeaneve Drakon the First, an article was published linking the Empress with an elven extremist. This she took as chance, until the source for the article published in the town square – and hastily taken down had been named as a “black bird of great and unusual size.”  
  
Two weeks later, there was another scandal in Orlais, this time rumors – once more circulating back to her via her ambassador and her group of hardy spies – that Gaspard was seeking to marry the Queen of Ferelden in an attempt to secure a dynasty outside of the long arm of his niece. This, too, was attributed to being carried by a “great murder of crows” by a great many of the gossips—and here, she knew, it must be Zevran. Not only from the source, but from the fact that few – if any – would go through the means to discredit Gaspard, especially for little gain other than her own freedom.

She was not surprised to see the Crow on her window a few weeks later, the mask already set to the side.

This time, she thought, they would play cards for a far sweeter prize.


End file.
